Page 110 of 72 Hours of You

One

LIAM JOHNSON IS GOING TO DIE TONIGHT, but I’m determined not to let that ruin my game of beer pong. Especially since I’m winning.

I ignore the glowing pink light over Liam’s head and let the dented ball fly out of my hand. It arches over Noah’s parents’ fold-up table and plonks into Ethan’s last cup.

“Holy shit, Sydney!” Noah throws his arm over my shoulder. “You’re, like, the BPC!”

Noah is obsessed with acronyms. And beer.

“Thanks,” I say, patting the muscled arm coiled around me.

“Beer Pong Champion!” he shouts, pointing at my head with his free arm. He squeezes me tighter and a little bit of warm beer sloshes onto my favorite flannel button-down. “BPC!”

The rest of the party cheers. “BPC! BPC!”

I slide out from under Noah’s arm, do a little curtsy, and blow a couple kisses. The crowd cheers even louder. People are so predictable.

“You should really come to more parties,” Noah not-so-quietly whispers, his breath hot in my ear.

“No she shouldn’t,” Ethan says from across the table, chugging the last cup of his beer pyramid.

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser,” I say.

“Another round?” Ethan asks, holding up the pitcher.

Noah rubs my shoulders like I’m a boxer getting ready to go back into the ring. “Forget it, man. She’s my partner for cornhole next.”

I shake my head. “I said I’d play one game.”

“Come on, Hoffman,” Noah coos. “You never come out.”

God, why do boys think that if they call you by your last name you’re contractually obligated to swoon? Oooh, are we teammates? Do you think I’m cool? One of the guys?

“I’m not going to—”

A deep rolling laugh rises over the pulsing music. Against my will, my eyes flit to Liam. He’s leaning over Cameron in the corner. Cameron’s got her head tilted toward him, touching his arm and laughing at whatever he just said. I don’t blame her. Liam can be really funny.

Cameron reaches up and tousles Liam’s hair right as the pink neon light over his head drops below an hour. 00:59:59. His cheeks are just the tiniest bit flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from the beer, or the heat, or Cameron. He brushes his messy black curls out of his eyes and leans down to whisper something in her ear. He looks cute. And happy. And alive.

Damn it. I shouldn’t have looked at him. I shouldn’t have come at all.

“Where’s Jules?” I ask. She’s the only reason I agreed to show up to this godforsaken party in the first place. I scan the living room full of people smushing up against each other and calling it dancing, but I don’t see my sister’s fire-red hair anywhere.

“She went to the 7-Eleven,” Noah says.

“When?” I ask. “Like exactly when?” She’s my ride, and suddenly the inescapability of this party swells up around me. I can’t be here anymore.

“About fifteen minutes ago? Are you good? I can drive you if you need to …”

“No,” I say. Noah’s actually pretty sweet and he’s probably fine to drive, but I never get in the car with someone who’s been drinking. Not even a sip. Not after the shit I’ve seen.

The pink glow across the room gets brighter.

Don’t look at Liam. There is nothing you can do. Do. Not. Look. At. Liam.

I look at Liam.

Cameron tugs on another one of Liam’s curls, oblivious to the pink death sentence glowing over his head. 00:57:17.